Leap of Faith… Redux

I recently stumbled across the following post, which I wrote way, waaaay back in May of ‘05. In all honesty, it made my heart hurt a little to re-read it. Who knew I could be introspective and poignant? Sometimes? Okay, I may have even teared up a bit. Just a little! I know, right? Me? BIG BABY. Deal with it. Re-reading the post also inspired in me a wicked craving for a donut. Go figure.

In any event, I thought I would share. Or, rather, re-share. Share again? Whatev. You know what I’m saying.

_______________________________

I have no desire to be enigmatic.

But it is a scary place, my mind. Crowded with jumbled imagery and intricate stories and trivial pop culture references, with nowhere to go. All of the craziness shuffles and scuffles to be forefront in my mind, to be most important. To be first. “Let me out!” it all screams, because it has to go somewhere, right?

Sometimes, when I read a book or I see a movie, I catch the mood of the piece, and I cannot shake it. I am there, and woe unto any who try to break in, to find me. I am in it, and only I can find my way back out. I am not even sure if that makes sense, but it is most definitely the case.

I mean, I know other people can read a book and put it down. Me? I read the fifth Harry Potter book in one night. ONE NIGHT! That freaking book is over 800 pages long! Honestly. It can take me literally hours to stop worrying about the characters in which I have invested my time. I feel their pain, their joy, their despair, their triumphs. If the book is particularly well-done, if the characters are alive, if the mood is fully realized, then it can take me hours to stop feeling the book. To let go of it.

Other people can watch a particularly riveting television show or movie and walk away thinking, “Huh. Good show! What’s for dinner?” Me? I become emotionally invested in the characters. I will obsess about their lives and the “what if’s” for days on end. Weeks, even. Now do not misunderstand. This is not to say I cannot separate the fictional characters from reality. No worries. I absolutely can. What I cannot do, not right away, anyway, is to stop thinking about their stories. Taking them in new directions. I will spend hours weaving new stories for them. Sometimes I even dream new stories. But Leonardo da Vinci said, The eye sees a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination awake. Dude was a wise Renaissance man, yo?

Which leads me to this: when I write stories? Oh BOY. I am SO living them. And it is so exciting! I get to be someone else! Well, for a little while, anyway. I become Goddess of the Story Universe! Bow to me! Then, inevitably, my characters begin growing and acting out in ways I had not intended, and I just get to go with it, and it is GOOD. Of course, I think this is why I enjoy happy ending so much, formulaic cliche be damned. I need them, or I am lost. Then again, my endings are not always happy. And I absolutely hate that, because I ache for my characters. But I love it, too.

For a long time I thought this craziness had a name. I HAD to give it a name. I was surely bipolar. Manically depressed. Obviously. It was the only explanation for the mood swings, the black days, the deep-rooted dark despair that settled into my mind and would not let go. Right? And what sane, happy person loses herself in television and books? Huh? Normal people with three beautiful kids and TGIM don’t act this way, right? Am I RIGHT?! I hated my career choice, my living situation, my life, and I could not shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly WRONG with me, because everyone I knew insisted I should be happy, that I should be thankful, that I should just STOP wallowing and get on with living. And I wanted to. I WANTED TO. But I was stuck. So I turned to the happy pills. But the drugs? They did not help. Dispassionateness, for me, was not a cure. It was a bandage.

“You are just like my ex-husband,” my sister said to me. “You can be anything you want to be. Anything but happy.”

Oh, no she DIDN’T.

So I ripped it off that bandage. And I made CHANGES.

I found a job writing and quit my teaching job. I packed up and moved all the way across the United States, not sure when and if TGIM would follow, but sure it was the right thing to do. I began expressing the jumbled imagery, intricate ideas, and trivial pop culture references swirling about in my mind through the magical world of blogging. I made new friends. I discovered the words “job satisfaction” were not mutually exclusive. I pulled myself out of the rut of complacency and fear in which I was trapped and made some personally earth-shattering decisions regarding what I wanted out of life. And, yes, I hurt TGIM and others close to me in the process and, yes, almost lost everything. I know that. I OWN that. But these days? I’m starting to feel as if despite the excruciating pain I caused myself and others, I have gained everything.

TGIM thinks this is The Crazy in me. Sometimes he loves me for it, sometimes… not so much. Me? I am starting to believe The Crazy is simply the artistic temperament in me. And, slowly, oh so slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it, to hone it, to bend it to my infinite megalomaniacal will, mwah ha ha ha!…

Sorry.

The other day I stumbled across a quote by Edvard Munch, the artist formerly known as the man who painted The Scream. Okay, he is still known as that, I just like the allusion to Prince. Because Prince ROCKS. Anywhos, Munch wrote of the experience he had which triggered the creation of this masterpiece:

I was out walking with two friends - the sun began to set - suddenly the sky turned blood red - I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence - there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city - my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety - and I sensed an endless scream passing through nature.

As I read this I realized, hey, sometimes I sense that Endless Scream, too. I hear it! I KNOW it. And, slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it. I know, I know. Inscrutable, much? Talk to my family. But, then again, if I did not see the world this way, if I did not feel the world this way, how could I write? And writing? Makes me feel complete. Utterly, dizzyingly complete.

Well, writing, and a big ol’ cinnamon cake donut. Yummmmmm.

Take that, big sister. I CAN be happy.

Random Thoughts on a Dreary Thursday Afternoon

Okay, I’m not sure if any of you have ever lost consciousness before, so let me just say very quickly here: Don’t do it.

No, seriously. If you can avoid a situation in which there is a possibility you might lose consciousness, by all means, do so. Whatever you do, do not pass out. Especially if you have foolishly locked yourself in an ER restroom where no one can find you until you come to, drag yourself up from the floor, and stagger out to find a nurse. Or, you know, anyone who will make the world stop spinning. It is NOT fun. Not fun at all. Trust me.

Just FYI.

Also, this? This right here is exactly what happens when you send a man to get support supplies after you bust your ass. Wait. I have to say, it seems like there should be something after that, doesn’t it? Like, “I busted my ass doing this report and this is the thanks I get?!” Or, “Hey, don’t bust your ass trying to get this done, it’s not that big a deal, yo?” You know? But whatever. Hee. I said “but.” Which totally sounds exactly like butt! Because it is a homonym?! Or more specifically, a homophone?! Hee! BUT.

What?

Oh yes… THIS is exactly what happens!

I know, right?! It’s like he just walked into CVS and grabbed the biggest, brightest, most gosh-awfulest butt-support-donut EVER and was like, “Dude. Cat will so totally love me for this. I am the best husband in the entire universe. I wonder if my bike pump will fit this bad boy?” And I was like, “Oh, the HELL you say?!”

I mean, guys? It smells like those kickballs you used to check out from the P.E. teachers at recess! Yeah. Like that. And I can totally bounce it and it makes that rubbery BOING! sound, which I demonstrated to several of my very impressed co-workers. Well, once they recovered from the blinding shock of the Manic Panic Orange, that is.

Honestly.

Thank goodness for my spare office hoodie, that’s all I’m saying.

So… think anyone will notice?

Conversation Over B-Day Breakfast for TD

by Guest Blogger TGIM

Scene: Family of five, two adults, one rugged twelve-year old boy and two young girlie-girls. All sitting down, waiting for breakfast to be served.

Man to Rugged Boy: “Son, would you like to go to the sporting goods store and check out some pocketknives?”

Girlie Girl #1: “Ooh, I want a pocketknife!”

Girlie Girl #2: “Hey, can I have a knife too?!”

Rugged Boy (with slightly sheepish smile): “Um, yeah… do you think we could go to the craft store instead?”

Woman to all: “Wow.”

End Scene.

Oh, Snap!

Allison dragged me over to the dream home she had constructed for her Polly Pocket using an empty paper box, a pair of heavy duty scissors, assorted colored pencils, and some seriously stellar eight-year-old ingenuity.

“Momma, look, ” she instructed, flourishing at the box with a red colored pencil she had evidently put to work covering the outside of Polly’s new home with meticulously crafted bricks. “Check it out!”

Mentally tallying how many hours before TGIM tripped over Polly’s dream home one too many times and condemned it to tear down status, I said, “Ooh, uh-huh.” Hey! With motherly pride! Step off me!

“Well?” she asked, her face lit with eagerness and pride in ownership. “What do you think of Polly Pocket’s new briiiiiiiiiick… hooouuuuse?”

I ruffled her hair playfully. “It’s mighty mighty,” I replied, almost without thought. “Now Polly can let it all hang out.”

We stood there, mother and daughter, admiring Polly Pocket’s Dream Home in artistic and Motown solidarity. After a moment we went our separate ways, each of us humming and singing “She’s a briiiiiick… hoooouse…” under our breath and jiving to the beat. What can I say?

That’s just how we roll at the DWM house.

Pet Store Shenanigans

Pet stores. Exciting for the kiddos, smelly to the momma, and oh-so educational. For EVERYBODY.

The other night we were in the vicinity of the pet store, so we threw caution to the wind and went to torture ourselves by looking at the most adorable kittens and puppies and other allergen-riddled mammals (and some way creepy non-mammals) that we can never ever buy, not even in a million years, as my kids will tell you, “Thanks to Mom and her stupid allergies that could totally kill her, GOSH!” But they’re not bitter. They love me.

So, we browsed the store, marveling at the gecko’s eyes, giggling over the mice-in-the-wheel shenanigans, and freaking out over the ssslithering ssslinkiness of the snakes. As we approached the cockatiel cage, a favorite stop of my kiddos, we inadvertently stumbled upon an intimate moment between the two cockatiel residents.

Now, listen… I don’t care what anyone says, NOBODY wants to watch these pet store animals get their freak on. They’re shameless exhibitionists, openly exulting in braggy displays of unrestrained lust– all, “Oooh! Look at me! Look at me!” (and often in positions that put the Kama Sutra to shame)– displays which everyone knows are not appropriate for public and/or mixed company, and it’s exposed and embarrassing and gross, like karaoke.

But I digress.

“Oh, my,” said Hannah, pausing for one infinitesimal moment before hurrying past the cage, an embarrassed grin slowly spreading across her face.

“What?” Alli asked before looking into the cage. “Ooooh! Look! That one’s giving the other one a piggyback ride!”

Tanner and Hannah snorted.

“She doesn’t know,” Tanner said, turning away from the cage.

“Yeah, she doesn’t,” Hannah agreed.

But Alli was having none of it. She stood there, a thoughtful expression on her face as she shifted her attention between her grinning and increasingly red-faced siblings and the busy little caged birdies.

Thankful for at least one child with a shred of farmyard innocence, I began to shoo my kids toward the exit. Before we made it two steps, however, TGIM wandered over from the aquarium section of the store.

“What’s up?” he asked.

Okay. FINE. I giggled (because… dirty!) but only in my head. Duh. I have filters! Most of the time!

“Look, Daddy!” Hannah said, pointing at the cage.

So TGIM looked. Then looked again. It was one of those amusing little television moments where you could practically hear the double-take sound effect.

Then TGIM looked at me, and his eyes did that yelling thing, you know, where they are all, “Um, hello? Cat? WHAT the…?!” Like somehow I encouraged the birds to go for a quickie during store hours! Whatever. My eyes told his eyes to just STEP OFF.

Suddenly, Alli turned away from the cage, and in an ah-HA! tone of voice exclaimed, “Oh, I know! They’re mating!”

“Giddyup, little horsey!” Hannah blurted out, pitching Tanner into a fit of the giggles.

You know how you do that thing when you are trying not to laugh at something your child says because you aren’t quite sure whether or not it would be appropriate to encourage said child in questionable expressions of humor? You know, that thing? With the trying not to laugh? TGIM and I were doing that thing. Well, attempting to do that thing, anyway.

Hey, don’t judge. You weren’t there. You don’t know.

We turned to leave. Hannah grabbed her red-faced daddy’s hand and skipped alongside him as we headed out the doors and into the parking lot. “Hey, did you see the smiles on the birdies’ faces, Daddy?” she asked.

Tanner– trailing behind the two– scoffed at her ignorance. “Birds don’t smile.”

“Those ones were. Did you see, Daddy?! Those were happy birdies!”

“Okay, now you’re just embarrassing me,” TGIM said and determinedly changed the subject. To dessert ideas, I think, which… brilliant?!

But at my side, I felt a gentle tug on my arm. I looked down at Alli, who grabbed my hand with her little one and said in an innocent, confiding little voice, “Well, that sure looked like an awkward way to mate, didn’t it Momma?!”

In an instant, sure knowledge of impending adolescence (times three!) struck me and wrestled the air from my lungs more quickly than that time my big sister slammed her end of the see-saw down so violently it launched me up and off… and down. THUNK.

Can’t…! breathe…! I remember thinking back then. I thought the same now.

I choked back the breathlessness. I powered through. There was time yet. Still time.

“Oh, absolutely,” was all I replied, as I squeezed her hand. “Absolutely.”

TechnoGeekery Quickies and Other Random Stuff

So, another TG Quickie coming at’cha:

TechnGeekery Quickie #5: Chores and Allowance… Taking it Techno

In this quick episode I discover that tiny mints and newly-applied lip gloss do not mix. Among other things, naturally.

In other news, TGIM came across this very familiar-looking verification code as he was surfing Ticketmaster for tickets to some– oh, I don’t know, sporting event of some sort, I guess?– so he got all excited (a little too excited if you ask me, come to think of it) and took a screenshot and shot it on over to me via email, all “Look! Look! Look what I came across! Kelly would like it because she’s awesome and I love her and did you read her blog today because she is so SO funny and hilarious and man IwishyouweremorelikeKellybecauseshe’ssoawesome, so check it out!” But maybe I might have hyperbole-ed up that last part, but he may as well have said it because it is what he MEANT. Don’t think I don’t know it. Because I know.

What? Oh! The verification code! Right. Focused now.

(click to enlarge)

Gosh, Kelly, even Ticketmaster has a thing for you.

Oh, and speaking of hyperbole, I NEED this t-shirt. Like… NOW, please:

The One Where We Eat Fancy

As we– I, TGIM, and the kiddos– are settling into the booth at a quaint, little-known treasure of a cafe for an impromptu wedding anniversary breakfast celebration (15 years! what the…?!):

Tanner: [gesturing grandly ’round the dining room] Momma, this place is really nice… [as we all begin to nod and murmur in agreement] I mean GLASS ketchup bottles?!

Cat: [over TGIM’s explosive snort/coughing fit] I know, right?

A Special Holiday Message

( I couldn’t let this beautiful season pass without expressing a heartfelt message of holiday cheer. So… yah. Here it is. Music in this podcast provided by the Podsafe Music Network, with Santa Claus is Coming to Town by Dokken. Yes, I said DOKKEN.)

Ha, ha, ha! Merry Christmas, everyone! HA, HA, HA!

Oh… didn’t you hear? In Australia, street Santas are being encouraged to replace “ho ho ho!” with “ha ha ha!” You know, because all that deep “ho ho ho!”-ing scares the children? Not to mention the blatant sexist connotations inherent in the traditional phraseology?

Then again, potentially any large man in a red velvet suit with a scraggly white beard could scare the everlovin’ bejeebies out of a child, especially when said child is coerced into sitting on the man’s lap while “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake!” blares in the background.

But that is totally beside the point. Belting out “ho ho ho!” at all those unsuspecting children? All they want is a candy cane, after all. That could damage a child’s psyche, that’s all I’m saying.

Yup. Leave it to Oz to straighten out Santa Claus and his Eurocentric, closed-minded, rigid value judgments. I mean, ‘ho’? And what about ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’? Hello? Who is he to say?! Huh? This is the 21st century, Santa. We don’t burden children with labels that could damage their self-esteem. We prefer “obedience-challenged” or “potentially disruptive on a large scale.” And EVERYONE gets a present. But I digress.

So, the family and I just finished singing a rousing chorus of ‘Rudolph the Differently-abled Reindeer-American,’ which is one of our favorite Holiday Ballads of Strictly Secular Joy. Those are always fun this time of year! Good times!

Aw, I kid. Kidding! My family and I are in fact quite full of the holiday spirit and are feeling extraordinarily thankful for the blessings we have received this year.

Speaking of blessings…

Top Ten Lambson Moments of 2007

10. Buying Guitar Hero and rocking out as a family. Need I say more?

9. Allison discovering acronyms, and-after hearing that I made bran muffins-skipping along behind me and happily yelling out for all the neighborhood to hear “Yay! Mom, Come on! Let’s go eat a BM!”

8. Hannah telling Tanner she loved him, just out of the blue, then-after Aaron and I finished cooing, “Aw!” and “How sweet!”-shrugging and admitting, “Yeah… that was an awkward moment.”

7. Breaking up with American Idol so we could have those three nights per week of our lives back.

6. Making wedding videos and Public Service Announcement vidcasts with the kiddos. Just for the heck of it.

5. Hannah yelling, “Momma! Swinging with the wind rushing over my toes is my favorite way to swing! (flinging hair as if she were the Breck Girl) With the wind in my hair!… While wearing a skort!”

4. Allison proudly showing off her new gerbil, then announcing, “One of them I thought had babies, but it was actually only his tentacles.” Then, after our explosion of laughter, insisting, “No! I’m not kidding, guys! Those tentacles were HUGE!”

3. Scoring an interview with actor Michael Muhney (AKA: Sheriff Lamb)-from my favorite TV show Veronica Mars-for my sleeper hit vidcast, Veronica Mars REWIND, (Michael Muhney says I “rock”… Booyah!)

2. Tanner auditioning for and WINNING the lead part of Charlie in his school’s musical production of Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka.

1. Crawling into bed at the end of the day and cuddling up with a novel, smooshed between my kiddos–smelling of playground sweat and sunshine–eagerly devouring novels of their own, the only sound the whisper of turning pages, the rustle of blankets, and occasional bursts of laughter followed by silly passages read aloud for all to enjoy. No television. No phone. No computer. No radio. Just my kids and me tucked away from the world, immersed in worlds of our own… together.

And I mean this… happy holidays, y’all.

I Spy: Another Hannahism

After an evening of eating out– a much-needed and appreciated respite from food preparation, heated stovetops, and piles of dirty dinner plates– TGIM, with a groan, pushed away his plate, still littered with the scattered remains of his dinner, including a few French fries.

“Everybody get enough?” he asked.

The kiddos, who were finished eating and busily completing the childrens’ menu games they hadn’t gotten to before the food was delivered to our table, looked up at their daddy.

“I’m full,” TD answered, pushing away his own plate.

“Me, too,” Alli agreed.

“I couldn’t eat another bite,” I replied, looking down at my plate. I grabbed one last piece of avocado and popped it into my mouth. “Okay, now I couldn’t eat another bite.”

TGIM raised an eyebrow at me.

(What? I like avocado.)

“I’m full, t– oooh!” Hannah suddenly cooed with a happy little clap. “I spy with my little eyestoobigformystomach, a plate of yummy-looking French fries!”

We were still giggling when the waiter came by to deliver our bill.

When People Get Too Comfortable Together: A Cautionary Tale

TGIM: You know what, Cat? I’m not going to wear my contacts today. I’m going to give my eyes a rest… you know, free eyeball it.

Cat: You’re… wait, what?

TGIM: Oh, hey, that was witty! Write that down.

Cat: Oh, good lord.

Global Warming: It’s the Cows, Not Us

Over lunch, TD turned to me and stated, all conversational-like, “Momma, I really don’t get the big deal about global warming.”

“Oh, okay, well–” I started, gearing up for my “will life on the planet survive the eco-destructive tendency of humans” conversation (which… DUH!), but my boy? He wasn’t quite finished with that thought yet.

“I mean, c’mon. Who really cares about our descendants a thousand years from now? What’s up with that?”

Fact: Tacos don’t taste quite as good when they are inhaled into your sinus passages due to sudden snorts of laughter. Just so you know. As my eyes began to water–those spices BURN going up, I tell you what!–I turned to TGIM for a little help.

“What’s up with that, indeed,” TGIM replied, rubbing the top of TD’s head playfully. “I’m with you. Who cares about our future generations?”

“Plus, you know what else is contributing to global warming?” TD asked, looking to make sure he had our undivided attention. “Cow burps,” he crowed triumphantly.

“Ew!” Hannah squealed.

“Gross,” added Alli.

“Well, sure,” TGIM agreed.

Fact: I am never going to be able to enjoy a taco again. Oh, the agony! In my sinuses! Thanks a WHOLE lot, TGIM. Gosh!

TD looked at me, trying to gauge whether I was in agreement, or whether I was mocking him with my uncharacteristic silence, which he did not appear to notice was due to some serious food mastication issues. “I mean, we’ll all be dead, anyway, right?” he said. “DEAD.”

I finally choked down the taco. “As doornails,” I answered. “And why? Because of a bunch of stinking cows chewing genetically engineered alfalfa and burping up methane gas, that’s why!”

“True dat,” TGIM concurred solemnly. “True dat.”

Honestly. Family conversations over dinner? Rock solid!

I love a good teaching opportunity. What can I say? That’s just the kind of momma I am.

We Don’t Need No Education

Over a Saturday morning breakfast of pancakes and eggs, I was discussing the whole Five Guys phenomenon with my kiddos–bee tee dub, awesome burgers, even Zagat says so, just so you know–and I mentioned that the five sons of the entrepreneur chose the family business over college.

“Well, if their business is making lots of money, then they can afford to go to college, right?” Hannah asked.

“Because you have to go to college to learn.” Alli added with eight-year-old conviction.

“Well, that’s not necessarily true,” I said, ever the fair and balanced educator. “You don’t need to got to college to learn. People can learn in many different ways, you know, like through reading books or gaining life experience.”

The girls, while busily stuffing their mouths with (not so dainty) bites of pancakes, were nodding their heads, as if to say, “Uh-huh… uh-huh…”

Encouraged, I took it a little further, “Don’t get me wrong, I think college is a wonderful idea, a solid investment in your future, even if you already have a successful family business or career. I’m just saying there are more ways to learn. I mean, at college you’re really just reading books and discussing what you read, anyway, but–”

“And going to parties,” Alli chimed in, matter-of-factly, before reaching for her glass and swigging her milk.

My eyes widened. The Bureau of Labor statistics I had at the ready flew out the window.

Hannah pointed a pancake-laden fork at Alli. “Yeah. And kissing boys,” she added, then popped the pancake in her mouth and chewed happily.

And with that, my lecture–all about how people with more education make more money, but college is also about developing communication, social, and logical thinking skills–stalled out before I could even bring it up to cruising speed.

I looked back and forth between my grinning eight and nine-year old daughters, who were looking at each other and nodding in a rare moment of sisterly camaraderie–envisioning frat parties and kissable college boys, no doubt! and beer! probably beer! at the parties?! with the college boys!– and there were no words. Which NEVER happens.

Then, with indisputable Because-I’m-the-momma, that’s-why! finality, I said, “Yeah, you two are so not allowed to go to college.”

Ha! Take THAT, horny little frat boys.

“Hey!” Hannah and Alli wailed in unison.

From the living room, I could hear TGIM laughing quietly.

Random Friday Ramblings

(Cat’s Caveat Lector: I haven’t had more than four hours of sleep any night this week. Sleep deprivation makes me cranky. And sort of stupid. That is all.)

So… on the way home from work yesterday I heard that song If Everyone Cared by Nickelback. You know, the one that goes, “If everyone cared and nobody cried/ If everyone loved and nobody lied/ If everyone shared and swallowed their pride/ Then we’d see the day, when nobody died.” And I thought to myself: Hey, now. That’s just plain silly.

I mean, at the end of the day, even if nobody cried or lied, and everyone on God’s green earth cared and loved and shared and swallowed their pride, I’m pretty sure accidentally stepping in front of a swiftly moving vehicle or locomotive of some sort would still kill you dead. As a doornail, right? And try explaining to the lions and other wild animals why they shouldn’t maul or eat people! That’s right! I bet Nickelback didn’t take into consideration the wild, dissident nature of the beast! What? Like the lions are just going to sit back and say, “Hey! These tasty human wandering around aren’t crying or lying anymore! They are caring and loving and sharing and swallowing their pride! Let’s not eat them today!” (Hee. I said “pride.”) Heck no! The kings of the jungle will still freaking eat you! If you happen to be in the jungle and stuff! Oh, and don’t even get me started on natural disasters.

Be reasonable with your song lyrics, Nickelback. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to change the lyrics to something like, “…Then we’d see the day, when nobody died… unless they get hit by a swiftly moving train, in which case, c’est la vie.” I’d still buy the song! Well, except for the whole It’s a Nickelback Song thing. In any event, stop creating expectations of invincibility in a Utopian society! That’s all I’m saying.

My point? Rested.

Speaking of eager little beavers… my little Mack? Not so much with the eager little beaverness when it comes to school this fall.

What? Yes, I was too speaking of eager little beavers! Or maybe I nodded off for a moment and dreamed about them! But whatever! Stop interrupting! GOSH.

Conversation between Mack and TGIM as he dropped her off (read: forced her out of the car kicking and screaming) at school yesterday morning:

Dad: Remember, Mack… happy! Smiley face! Joy joy!
Hannah: Hrumph. Sad. Frowny face. Misery misery.

I’m not going to lie. While I’m understandably concerned about my daughter’s reluctance to fully embrace the fourth grade experience, I’m more than a little impressed with her spontaneous and witty analogistic rejoinder during a moment of emotional crisis. And she’s never even SEEN Ren and Stimpy! So there’s that.

Happy! Smiley face! Joy joy!
Sad. Frowny face. Misery misery.

Catchy! I’m thinking the t-shirts would sell like hotcakes.

Bring Back the Funny. Please?

So, after a colossally underwhelming, seriously sucky weekend (though I’m sure it was all hugs and puppies in comparison to poor Britney Spears’ trainwreck of a weekend, but focus…), capped off by a horrendous Monday morning (there was this whole thing with a spider of enormous proportions, and then some recklessly itinerant sprinklers– don’t ask), something happened yesterday that finally brought back the funny. Seriously. Cracked me right up. I laughed right out loud and e’rything.

It began when TGIM grabbed his car keys from the table and announced to the family in general, “I’m going to Sears.”

“Why?” I asked. Because when TGIM voluntarily commits himself to braving the mall, there is invariably a compelling why. “Do we need a tool? Or an appliance of some sort?” I mentally inventoried the utility closet.

TGIM shrugged. “Nah. I just haven’t been in a while.”

Okay. Sure.

Wait. What now?

He looked around at the kids, who stood with their Okay, mister, what have you done with my father? eyes trained warily upon him. “So… who wants to come with Daddy to Sears?!”

Huh. He was serious.

Poor darlings. The kiddos looked to me for guidance, but I simply shrugged, still puzzling over TGIM’s sudden shopping compulsion. Plus, I was trying to remember if we needed vacuum filters or not (because, if he was going)… which, not, thanks to TGIM’s Great Sears Shopping Spree of ‘06. Boy rocked the sale, yo?

TD and Hannah agreed to go, no doubt hoping for a chance to hit EB Games for a little one-on-one time with the Wii.

Not funny yet? I know! Patience! Good lord. Let a gal set the stage, will you? Sheesh.

Where was I? Ah, yes. The mall excursion.

So they left, and I took advantage of this windfall of Quiet Time by running upstairs to put the finishing touches on my TechnoGeekery podcast.

Still not funny? I know! I’m almost there! Stop interrupting.

After a few hours–oh, yes, I said HOURS–I heard the front door open, and Hannah burst into the house. How do I know it was Hannah? Because she was singing. And what was she singing?

Ah! Pay attention! This is the part where it gets funny! Although I probably just ruined it by telling you it was funny! Which is like explaining the joke! Which makes it un-funny! But whatever!

TGIM must have been listening to My Chemical Romance in the car because Hannah was singing Teenagers at the top of her lungs. As she thundered up the stairs, I sat frozen, mentally cursing TGIM for his indiscriminate song selection while Children Were Listening.

Until, that is, my girlie burst into my room belting out the chorus, “…’they! say! now! teenagers scare the little sheep out of me! Duh da da da dah…’– oh, hi, Momma, whatcha doin’?”

And that, my friends, is the exact moment when life brought back the funny.

Hurray for YAY!

With My Apologies to Stan and Jan Berenstain:

Hurray! Hurray!

They’re on their way!

The kids are coming home today!

Customer Service Crisis

It used to be that cashiers were all friendly and gabby and customer service-oriented. Hell, back in my high school days when I worked the cash register at Burger King (shut up) I was all ABOUT the customer service! With the smiling? And the polite chit-chat? And the attention to detail? And the speaking of English?

Not so anymore! No, sir! It seems that lately, I’ve had to forgo the retail chit-chat and spend the majority of my time just trying to understand what the frak the cashier– whether at the drug store, the grocery store , the drive-thru (dyeh! “through,” damn it! “THROUGH”!)–is trying to say to me.

Honestly. Just last night TGIM and I made a quick stop at our local drugstore for some earplugs so I could make it through the night without walloping him or violently shoving him over on his side in order to make the horrid–horrid!– snoring go AWAY. As we were checking out, I stood next to him at the counter, engrossed in OK Magazine (Britney jaccuzzied nekkid, y’all! For reals!), as TGIM waited, cash in hand, for the total.

“Seebee yacaw?” I heard the cashier say.

Silence.

I looked over at TGIM, who had that hunted, I don’t know what the freak is going on look on his face.

“Seebee yacaw?” the cashier repeated. A bit testily I might add.

Silence.

TGIM stared blankly at the cashier for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something, thought the better of it, glanced at me, then back at the cashier.

Luckily I am nothing if not a Super Saver, so despite the rather thick– now, I’m going to go out on a limb and call it Asian– accent (I didn’t take the time to ask him the specifics of his ancestry, me just buying ear plugs and all, but I’m fairly confident in my profiling skillz), I knew what the grumpy man wanted. “Our CVS card is in my wallet,” I told the cashier, “which is at home.”

TGIM’s face cleared. “Oh!” Then his smile faded. “Oh.” Because we like to shop the sale, yo?

Figuring we were good to go, I dove back into my magazine. (Adam Sandler is using a BUTT DOUBLE in his new movie? Get out!)

“Fo numbah?”

Silence. Then, “Um, Cat…?”

I must admit, the only reason I had a clue what the man said was because I know that at this particular store when we are too disorganized to know where our Super Saver cards are– as they have apparently broken off in the dark recesses of our purse, somewhere alongside a lone breath mint and the coins we can always hear clinking in there, lost forever and ever– all we have to do is rattle off our phone number. Which I did. It didn’t process. I tried again. Still no luck. TGIM said, “Let me try mine.” Before he could, however, the cashier barked out the total and put his hand out for our money.

No sale price for us!

Now let me tell you, when I was a Burger King employee, you–as the customer–Had It Your Way, damn it! YOUR WAY! And if employees weren’t all cute and perky and personable at the register, they dragged your non-customer-service-oriented ass back to the fiery pit of hell that is Broiler Duty, by GOD, they did!

Well, except if you were TOO perky and personable, like those times I’d spot a cute boy at the front counter, and I would drop the Chicken Tender I’d been snacking on and race my friend Shane (whose flamin’ gayness was only superseded by the bigness of his Flock of Seagulls ‘do) to the registers where we would jostle for position and hurry to be the first to greet the customer–”WelcometoBurgerKingMayIHelpYouGetOFFme!”– thus securing the sale. Although if girlfriend thought he could out-perky me, he was seriously trippin’. I was a CHEERLEADER. Just sayin’. Then again, if his choice of coiffure was any indication, I’d say “seriously trippin’” was a safe bet. But we were FRIENDLY, see? And spoke with the English? That’s all I’m saying.

But whatever.

My point, you ask? Well… I don’t have one, really. It just bugs me that because I spend so much time at the cash register simply trying to be understood (or to understand), I can’t make with the friendly. Or Shop the Sale. OR finish even one measly magazine.

*gasp*

OMG. I just realized! If customer service continues in its downward spiral into the proverbial toilet… I may have to start subscribing to magazines.

Ah customer service! Ah humanity!

Thank you for not sticking your nose in my uterus.

My good friend Kelly over at Klog wrote of an experience she had last weekend at a hotel when an uppity hotel employee who was supposed to be restocking the continental breakfast bar began to harass her and her hubby Rob for a bit about their duty to procreate.

No, seriously. She was neglecting the bagel bin to harass them! Honestly. I would have been all, “Hey! Stop your yammerin’ and gimmee my bagel, lady! I’m HUNGRY!… Oh, and do you have any more of those little cream cheese packets?” (I’m a little testy when I’m hungry. Low blood sugar, and all that.) But that is so not the point.

While I was appalled at the effrontery of the neglectful bagel re-stocker, I will admit that I definitely think it’s natural for people to go all Pregnancy Patrol and say things like, “Oooh, y’all are so cute! You’d have the prettiest babies!… so what’s up with that?” It has something to do with the human imperative to procreate. Oh, and that categorical imperative which requires that nosy people get all up in a person’s bidness. And I do think there is a compliment in there somewhere. People think you’re pretty! And would have cute babies! At the very least… flattering, right? Not that flattery will get up at two a.m. to feed a hungry baby, but still… you’re pretty!

However… while perfect strangers have every right to see a cute young couple and think something along those lines, it is a very different thing altogether to express said thoughts aloud. So very inappropriate! Good lord. I agree with you, Kelly. People DO need to stay the hell out of a person’s uterus, the bizzyotches. I vote that you go with the “I have sex JUST for fun” t-shirt. Think of all the fun confrontations… I mean, conversations that bad boy would cause! Am I right? (I like the “Thank you for not sticking your nose in my uterus” slogan idea, but I think it may leave things too open to interpretation… oh, you know who you are! **cough**NILBO**cough**)

On the flip side:

If you’re me, you get, “Good lord. Are all those yours? [insert look of abject horror] Wait… you don’t plan on having any more of them, do you?”

Or– if you’re a part of TGIM’s family– you get, “When are you having more?!”

Coincidentally, just the other day as I sat in a salon chair staring with fascination at the sticky, tin foil faux hawk my stylist was creating with her crazy mad hair-coloring skillz, the usual questions began. And, as usual, they drifted into kid territory.

“What?! You have three kids?! THREE?! Wow! When did you start having babies? When you were twelve?! HA! HA! HA! How old are they?… Oh my GOD! Did you MEAN to have them so close together like that?! That’s crazy!… Hey! Can you believe she has THREE kids?! Yep! THREE! She looks twelve, right?! HA!”

At this point, everyone in the salon was sneaking stealthy yet totally obvious peeks at me, the crazy lady, the abnormally fertile momma. Hey. Don’t get me wrong. I like attention as much as the next attention whore, but at that moment, strangely, I was wondering why it is that the earth never opens up and swallows you whole when you WANT it to? Because honestly… where could I go? With the freaky foil faux hawk? And the prolific procreation skills?

But then my hair turned out all cute and stuff, so I was like, “Eh. That’s me. I’m a child-birthing fool… with some super cute hair! Take that, loudmouthed, rude stylist who I will totally be coming back to because LOOK AT MY HAIR! Cuteness.”

So, you see? The madness? Sorry, Kelly. Babies or not, it never ends.

Wedding Tips from the Kiddos

Here’s the thing… I threw together this “wedding video” (sarcastic quotes will make sense shortly) in an afternoon, so we could give it to TGIM’s youngest bro before we left Podunky Small Town, AZ.

I edited out all the cheesy baby pics and lovey dovey wedding crap and just left the extraordinarily helpful wedding tips my children had for the newlyweds.

As a service to all those in relationships in the blogosphere, I will share these special tips. Because I’m cool like that?

(Plus, I just reinstalled Podpress and need to test my feed.)

But mostly, I’m trying to do a Public Service! GOSH!

(With Titanium by Lee Coulter and Must Have Done Something Right by Reliant K.)

Splitting Hairs and Other Nonsense

Lately I’ve been pondering the complexities of friendship. And not just any friendship, but Best Friend Forever-ship. BFFship, if you will. You see, shortly after I married TGIM, I cross-stitched (okay, shut it) “Happiness is Being Married to My Best Friend” (seriously, I will cut you), which I then framed and proudly hung on our apartment wall. Honestly. I don’t think you properly understand just how painful it is for me to disclose this heretofore repressed memory of archetypal suburban domesticity, but I do it for the sake of my ART, okay? Because only recently I have discovered the inherent flaw in my claim of spousal BFFship which I unwittingly bought into for several years. The sad fact is… well, TGIM?

Yeah. He’s a guy.

Don’t get me wrong. In the grand scheme of things, there is nobody I would rather be with. In the event of, say, nuclear holocaust or a big-ass spider on the kitchen floor, TGIM is the person I want in my corner. Romantic cruise or candle-lit dinner for two? He’s my guy. My numero uno. My… TGIM.

Yet… recently I was listening to my best of good friends, Paige, talk about heading out to Hawaii to be with her sister as she gives birth to her second baby. Since I knew all about the recent experience Paige had doing the same thing for a friend, it was easy to envision her providing comfort, encouragement, back massages, even ice chips for her sister. Aw! So sweet!

Then I recollected TGIM during the birth of our second child, sitting at the edge of MY hospital bed staring at the television, remote control in hand, saying in a reasonable voice, “Come on! It’s not that bad. I’ll massage your back during the commercials!”

And that’s when it really hit me. Guys and gals? Totally different, yo?

What I’ve learned is that a woman should never underestimate the power of a best girlfriend. And not just any girlfriend, but a kindred spirit. A bosom bud. A BFF. And yesterday this point was driven home in spades.

Allow me to illustrate:

See, I was feeling all brave and buoyant and masochistic yesterday and before I knew it I was at the mall shopping for a new swimming suit.

I know, right?! Oh, and just so you know, my body just shivered convulsively at the memory. No, seriously. I totally shuddered. I just thought I’d point that out, you know, just to illustrate. I mean, since you can’t see me an all. For reals, y’all. I’m all in a dither! In fact, I typed “aswo;4wrj” instead of what I intended to write next (because of the shaking?), so I had to delete “aswo;4wrj” and explain about the shuddering and the convulsing and whatnot, which has completely thrown off my train of thought and just goes to show that even still I am in the throes of emotional perturbation after an afternoon spent swimsuit shopping at the mall.

Wait. What?

Oh! The swimsuit! Right. Thing is, I sometimes have these little spurts of insanity. Eh. What’cha gonna do?

Amazingly, though, I found one. A swimsuit, that is. And not just any old swimsuit, oh no, but a ONE-PIECE swimsuit! And do you know what? Do you? I loved it. LOVED it! (if someone could just head on over to my momma’s house and revive her, please, that would be so great, thanks…) I loved that swimsuit so dang much I wanted to marry it and have its bikini babies, it was that cute! With the ruffled halter neckline and the ruching at the bust and the slimming effect of the dark chocolatey material and whatnot? I was all, “Hey, there, sexy little one-piece, how YOU doin’?”

Unbelievably, I snagged the last pair of these cheeky little Roxy swim short-shorts (too easy?) that totally matched. The coup de grace? Everything was on sale! Honestly. You better believe I was all over that deal. ‘Cha. My momma didn’t raise no fool. (speaking of… seriously, just a quick peek in at my mom? someone? just let me know…)

You’re probably asking yourself what any of this swimsuit nonsense has to do with friendship, what with the absence of any sort of camaraderie thus far in my story. Perhaps you are trying to make sense of it all by gleaning my swimsuit saga for meaning, perhaps drawing parallels betwixt (yes, betwixt!) the psychological import of finding a slimming, modest swimsuit and the emotional well-being derived from a friendship with a supportive, unpretentious girlfriend. You’d be dead wrong, of course. Good lord, people. Sometimes a swimsuit (fetching though it may be) is just a swimsuit. Has Freud taught us nothing?

No, actually, my point is this: I called TGIM to tell him I found a kickass swimsuit with matching short-shorts which I subsequently snagged and bought (on sale!) for my very own.

“How much?” he asked with obvious trepidation.

Well, that was disappointing.

So I called Paige to let HER know that I found a kickass swimsuit with matching short-shorts which I subsequently snagged and bought (on sale!) for my very own.

“Sweet! Well, get yourself on over here and model it, girlfriend! Woo!”

Ah. Much better.

Better still, when I actually did go over and model my new bathing ensemble, no fault could be found in Paige’s raptures over the extraordinary cuteness of the suit or in her admiration for my ability to Shop the Sale.

(In the interest of full disclosure I got a similar, equally enthusiastic response from TGIM after I snapped a picture of myself in said bathing ensemble and sent it to his phone, but that is SO not the point.)

My point, manic though it may be presented here (I’m trying to go off the Diet Dr. Pepper, I truly am, honest), is that although my husband is my best guy, my steady rock, my lover, he is just not a GIRL. He won’t put on yoga pants and go trapezing with me on my birthday. No, sir. He doesn’t want to hear me complain about PMS, or about being bloated due to overindulgence in cheese fries, or how all my hair seems to be falling out and I wonder if it’s the product I’m using? Nor does he want to listen to me go on and on about podcasting, or how Let’s Dish! takes the stress out of dinner, or how YouTube is the devil. And he certainly doesn’t want to speculate on the possible meaning behind a look that took place between Veronica and Logan on Veronica Mars. I mean, he WILL listen, because he’s a super nice guy. But he won’t GET it. Not like a best girlfriend– a BFF– will get it.

He tries, of course. In fact, just the other day he called me at work to tell me that he heard on the radio that Lindsay Lohan had been arrested for DUI and possession of cocaine. Just because he thought I’d want to know! Aw! But did he want to discuss anything beyond the possible jail time she was looking at, such as the ridiculousness of celebrity “rehab” centers like Promises or the possible ramifications of this arrest on LiLo’s career? NO. Because he just doesn’t get it. Not like a BFF gets it. And that’s what BFFship is all about.

I realize now that my heartfelt cross-stitch (SHUT. IT.) was almost right. Happiness is being married to my best GUY friend. Oh, I know, I know…. but semantics, shmemantics! All I’m saying is I am so very lucky to have found the wonderful man I’ve chosen to spend my life with…. but I’ve come to realize how much happier, how much fuller life can be when one is also lucky enough to have found a BFF.

My Fifteen Minutes

So… when Sarah Mahoney approached me and asked for an interview for a piece she was writing– No More Nagging: 10 Tips that Get Results– I was all, “Sure, I’d be happy to! Not that I ever nag. Could this be a piece on how I never nag? And how awesome it is that I never nag? And how everyone in my family LOVES it that I never nag them? Never ever? Because that would be ANNOYING?”

When I realized she wasn’t writing a fiction piece, I laughed. Ha! Because of the hilarity?

Then I opened my big mouth. And with that, I exposed my true motherly colors to the world.

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